


The Log of the Sloop 'Last Harbour'

by jottingprosaist (jane_potter)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Epistolary, Gen, Ghosts of Saltmarsh campaign setting, No Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jottingprosaist
Summary: 3rd of Pluviose(?)Last pages are ruined— may have been I who vomited on them. No great loss to tear them out; I don’t think I’ve writ anything of import in months.That’s the last time I drink like that. Pick yourself up, Zevres. Not a fucking loss yet. Heard there’s a city called Saltmarsh up the coast, big enough to offer a real harbour.[Having left his undersea home and people in disgrace, a young Triton tries to make his way on land by any means necessary— shipping, smuggling, and bullying his way through— until he discovers a line he can't cross.]
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	The Log of the Sloop 'Last Harbour'

**Author's Note:**

> Spelling and grammar errors in the journal entries are deliberate!
> 
> Dates based on the French Revolutionary calendar, just for funsies.

[A leather-covered journal of the type common to seamen and adventurers along the Saltmarsh coast, with a minor enchantment on the pages to repel water damage, though not stains and occasional spots of algae. Crudely embossed on the leather cover with some sharp-edged tool: The log of the sloop _Last Harbour_ , belonging to and sailing under Zevres Vuuvaxath of the Saltmarsh coast]

3rd of Pluviose(?)

Last pages are ruind— may have been I who vomited on them. No great loss to tear them out; I don’t think I’ve writ anything of import ~~since~~ in months.

That’s the last time I drink like that. The hangover is something but I’ve been beat to shit and robbed. Face will heal, I think, but not the missing molar. My life may be fucked but I’m not going to spend the rest of it falling in gutters and waking under docks. Seen a few airbreathers doing that— serve me right if I don’t learn from the example. Whiskey may be the only decent thing on land but it’s not worth the cost.

Pick yourself up, Zevres. Not a fucking loss yet.

Have set sail north-northwest up the coast, with fair winds and light cloud to block the sun (thank Procan).

Doubt I would still have my _Harbour_ if not for the fact that I’d moored it out by the reef before swimming in to Siltwater. Those fucks would have rolled me for it along with my coin and boots. Procan take their eyes.

Boots are no real loss. Nor Siltwater, since I’m obviously done with it. Can’t recall who knocked out my tooth last night but the lot of them are shits. Pathetic little village of mud-crusted fucks with no ambition. I’m not getting sucked down into it. Heard there’s a city called Saltmarsh up the coast, big enough to offer a real harbour. May I have better luck with fresh faces. Can’t hardly be fucking worse.

8th of Pluviose

Saltmarsh is a good enough town, but Procan knows how they’ve not been torn to shreds without any proper defenses. Sahuagin could raze the place in one night. Militia seems a joke— though that guard didn’t take it as one.

Shopkeep paid 25 copper to move crates. Grunt work. Won’t give it away at their inn nor market. Don’t need to pay for berth when I’ve got my _Harbour_.

Be damn nice to eat something other than raw fish and kelp for a change though. ~~I miss~~

14th Pluviose

Finally a real job. Hauling 5 crates of netting and 3 barrels of pitch up north to ____, since the delivery ship forgot them. Took long enough. They’ve all got their favorites of local captains here and won’t look twice at fins or gills though I’m thrice the sailor of any airbreather.

If I sail through the night, I’ll have the cargo to ____ in two days. Should arrive the same day as the initial ship. Show them how a Triton handles a boat.

16th Pluviose

Took on another cargo at ____. 15 casks and no questions asked, 25 pieces of gold up front and 25 more upon delivery. Pays more in one trip than the last ten combined. Fellow didn’t even try to pass me false coin— I checked. (What’s the use of a currency that can be counterfeited? And it’s a damn sight heavier than gilt shell.) Let them pay whatever coin they like, I suppose, as long as they’ll pay it to me.

—

2nd ~~Nivose~~ Ventose

Can’t hardly keep their land calendar straight. Wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for a scheduled meeting at Bridge Rock on the 4th. Rough winds from the north-east. Now a full day behind schedule and no signs of abatement. Realized near sunset that the fucking mainsail had come loose and was dragging in the wind— no wonder it was hard towing today. See if it bloody comes loose again. Another day of hauling by rope tomorrow, if the wind doesn’t let up.

—

11th Germinal

Took on a third cargo from Bennis. Damn airbreather keeps calling me “Zev.” Ignores almost half of what I say and smokes that disgusting pipe like he wants to pollute the whole sky himself. If I could pick up work from anyone else on this part of the coast I’d teach him to say my name properly.

Six days sailing to Gull Island. I’m promised provisions there. Possibly another job if it’s not been taken yet. Procan’s breath, get me there on time; I need more work than what I’ve got.

18th Germinal

Had to bully provisions out of the shop but they can take it up with Bennis for promising them to me. No time to wait for lazy layabouts. Extra pay if I can get this cargo to Saltmarsh by the 21st.

Small cargo for such a rush. Can’t feel what it is in the sack. Might be better not to wonder.

—

29th Floreal

South to Bridge Rock again. Meet Lassita at the lighthouse. Heavy cargo— _Harbour_ is low in the water and taking some waves over the gunnels. Wind doesn’t taste like rain at least.

—

15th Prairial

More barrels to Aitia. Going to make this a fast trip even if it means I have to tow— the pay is high and I don’t want to be held responsible for guarding expensive cargo from pirates. Or the guard. They’ve been snappy about tariffs lately and don’t seem to care that it’s not my lookout to pay those on cargo that’s not mine.

16th Prairial

Hauled in for shelter in a cove. Spotted lights to the east after twilight and I don’t want to find out who that was. Losing valuable time tonight, but it’s safer. Believe I’ll sit here for tomorrow and set sail again after nightfall. Time to work on my tattoo, at least.

17th Prairial

There’s a ship on patrol for sure— running legal colours but it doesn’t feel right. I barely dodged up a river mouth in time to miss a sweep. Procan send fog and I’ll sacrifice an octopus next time I can.

23rd Prairial

Some thanks I get for arriving alive! “We thought you were dead, Zev! Five days late! Zeminon’s going to chew my ear off for this”— do I care? When I wasn’t told the Sea Princes were known to be raiding down this way? Sea spit in her eye.

Barrels were full of saltfish. Fucking fish.

—

9th Thermidor

Bennis set me up with a human named Fabre for some new work. Sounds like a bigger job than one boat can handle, that’s true. We’re to move almost a thousand pounds of pig iron all the way to Gradsul. This one’s a tariff dodge for sure.

Fabre seems decent. Called me by my full name. I don’t get all his jokes but at least I’m better at pretending to know what the fuck airbreathers are talking about. He might explain some of the on-land politics if I ask right— don’t want to look like a rube.

20th Thermidor

Gold, gold, GOLD. Sweet gold. And Gradsul is a marvelous city to spend it in. Finally I see the appeal of living on land.

22 Therm

Think Ive been drunk for two days— Fabre keeps paying for booze. Can’t hardly turn it down n anyway I get into places when he goes in first. I askd some dumb questions but he laughs and just talks when he’s drunk so that’s all right.

Think I may still be drunk right now really.

24th Thermidor

Spent most of the last day underwater, with my _Harbour_ at anchor so I could hold onto the anchor chain and nap. Still got most of my coin though. And my new vest. Found it in Gradsul. Alligator hide from the Hool Marshes— fine to wear underwater.

Fabre looks worse though. Offered to tie his _Mistress_ to my _Harbour_ and sail them both while he slept. He was right grateful. Took up snoring in his hammock right away.

Heading back down Saltmarsh way now. Sun hurts the eyes a bit but that’s what a big hat’s for. Feeling good about lots of things right now.

—

12th Fructidor

Taking a quick jaunt up the coast to see Aitia— didn’t get a job or message from her, but I heard things have been rough in the marshes lately and thought I’d offer assistance. Don’t know if she’ll have a thing for me to do but it won’t hurt to be seen showing up.

15th Fructidor

Escorting a traveller down the coast isn’t the usual work but it’ll pay while I’m in the area. Still sticking around like Aitia asked, just in case.

17th Fructidor

Of all the fucking things to wash up at my feet.

Picked up a glaive at Gull Island. A Triton glaive, the real thing. Standard issue frontline polearm. Last thing I expected to find for sale at some crappy little junk store, covered in barnacles, hung up on the wall between lobster pots and net floaters and second-hand oars. Bought it for nearly nothing. Airbreathers must have thought it was worthless just because their steel wouldn’t hold up a month underwater.

In the middle of cleaning it off now. Under the barnacles it’s good and sharp. Few nicks in the edge— looks like steel to steel contact, not shell or chitin armour— but most of the blade is even still sharp.

Someone out there’s missing their weapon. That’s a demerit, marine. Disgraceful conduct.

Not that it matters, since they’re probably dead. Better to lose your life than drop your weapon, right? The dumb fuck.

It’s better off in my hands than these airbreathers. See if I can’t find a buyer who knows what it’s worth.

21st Fructidor

Glaive came in handy.

Aitia sent a pack of us out to find out what the problem was with her deliveries going missing in the jungle. Turns out a bunch of lizardfolk had moved in and took exception with travellers on Aitia’s regular route.

None of us could speak the language but fuck if they didn’t shoot at us first. Ambush took out three of Aitia’s men and the group broke apart. I lost sight of the ones that charged in waving swords (though in the end it turns out they mostly survived).

Spent a good six hours crouching and slipping through the damn forest, picking off lizards here and there. Got noticed once and had to run— drag out the pack searching for me until I could get them alone. Haven’t ever run so far on land. Worked my way back out of the jungle until I regrouped with the rest of Aitia’s men on their way out.

They were surprised to see me alive. They knew I’d done my share though: got a few claps on the back. I wasn’t expecting that, so I shoved one off me, then kind of fell down— my balance is off. But they got me up again and that was good. Got ourselves back to town and cleaned up. Procan but they apply whiskey everywhere for everything.

Hadn’t realized I was so covered in blood until then.

Got hit pretty hard a few times. Hands still shaking.

Glaive needs cleaning.

29th Fructidor

Bennis said Aitia’s deliveries are coming through again and she’s got stuff that needs moving if I want the work. Think I’ll head farther south for a bit though. Hate the taste of the air up here.

—

11th Vendemiaire

Got a full load heading up to ____. The _Harbour_ is loaded up to the gunnels and slow. Picked up a pair of mercenary women in Splitrock, even though they’re more weight on the boat. Just in case.

19th Vendemiaire

Ferrying a bunch of new fishing nets over to ____. Windy and rough as the Eternal Riptide right now, but it’s a nice easy delivery. Even waved when I passed a Keoish coast guard ship. Aren’t I the cheeky one.

—

31st Brumaire

Fingers finally healed enough to write again, though the middle one looks still crooked. Hurts like Lolth’s teeth to grip a sword. Or knife. Or anything bigger than a spoon.

There are other things I could write from the last month, but mostly it’s that you don’t punch a tortle in the face or they’ll bite your hand all to fuck. Big green bastard actually laughed and said I was lucky he hadn’t bit my fingers off, but he didn’t feel like taking that much from me and anyway blood tastes bad.

May he get a claw in his craw. See how that tastes.

12th Brumaire

Ran into Fabre in Splitrock. Said he’d wondered where I’d been— heard I’d got killed up in the Dreadwood. We had a good laugh about that.

He said he had a job lined up for himself nearby and wouldn’t mind if I tagged along, though he couldn’t cut me in for much of the pay. Just insurance for him and some experience for me.

Not sure what it’s all about but that’s already the point— not asking. Even though I can taste what’s in the cargo hold because the air’s so damp and saturated down there. Not sure if humans can.

14th Brumaire

Clean quick run, no problems. Fabre was happy with it and said I ought to help out more. I said damn it, give me the work then! He said he’d have to run it by Zeminon (didn’t know she was involved here) but he’d vouch for me.

Realized it’s been almost three years up here on the surface. I can tell by how the weather changes, though the calendar still means nothing without the right festivals and holy days. It’s gone by faster now that the work is steady and the pay is good.

I’m getting a grasp on things. And there’s room to move up, even, not just slog along amounting to nothing. Places to go, people to see. A few airbreathers I don’t mind at all, who know a good sailor when they see one and don’t care if it comes with gills and fins. Fabre even said it’s a bonus what I can do underwater— and of course it is, but not every airbreather knows it.

—

20th Brumaire

Another trip upriver into the marshes with Fabre. We loaded everything onto my _Harbour_ since she’s a little smaller than his _Hard Mistress_. Difficult towing upstream against the current, but with me in the water and Fabre rowing above we made decent time. And it was good to have backup against a river crocodile when one tried to take a piece out of me.

Felt uneasy handing over a bunch of swords and spearblades to lizardfolk in the marshes, but gold is gold, and the gold here is good. And who the fuck knows which lizards these ones are or where they live.

21st Brumaire

Fabre ribbed me a bit about the cargo on the way back— said he wasn’t sure I’d take to selling arms. Too many Tritons have a stick up the ass, he said.

Do I look like a Marine? Do I seem like a fucking Marine any more? I don’t care who wants me to carry what or where. As if the law knows what’s right or wrong half the time.

I didn’t shout too much at him about it since he started laughing when I did. Of course he was wrong about me. I told him he had to buy the drinks and he said fine, so. It doesn’t matter.

23rd Brumaire

Another small job, local. Only about thirty gold in it, but that’s fine. Fabre says a bigger job is coming soon.

Don’t mind sailing for low pay, actually. Nice to have company again. Even if it is an airbreather who thinks he knows the currents better than me.

—

10th Frimaire

Finally got word back from Zeminon that there’s a big job ready to go. Bennis sent down a messenger with a bunch of supplies— said he’s glad to see me getting on board.

And the gold. Four HUNDRED pieces of gold. Which is half of it up front. Four hundred more when we get back.

Procan give us good sailing and I’ll sacrifice twenty to the depths.

Fabre and I are both loaded to the gunnels with supplies. It’s a long trip south across the Bay almost to Monmurg (not somewhere I’ve been before) then back up north-west to the Javan River. Not sure if we’re bound for Port Torvin or farther upriver. I asked where we were going— not even what for!— but Fabre had to be mysterious about it. He likes to be a dolphin sometimes, but fine. I’ll see soon enough.

For the most part I’ve avoided the larger cities. Seems I get in enough trouble with airbreathers even in the smaller places, and I haven’t wanted to tangle with any law. Gradsul was good, though— with Fabre there at least— so this one could be good too. I think it’ll go well.

Yeah, I’m getting on board.

18th Frimaire

Avoided what looked like a Monmurg navy ship before dawn. Thankfully they had lights on board and we didn’t. Not that we’re carrying anything but supplies, but it’s better not to have the hassle. Fabre said Monmurg’s navy and privateers have been picking away at legitimate shipments lately, confiscating cargo and claiming it’s contraband so the Prince can reap the rewards. That’s why we’re needed to move some goods up north, quick and quiet.

It’s as good a reason as any. I said I didn’t care and Fabre laughed— sure, that’s why I’m on the job. Felt good to laugh with someone, not just at.

21st Frimaire

Monmurg harbour in the distance. It’s as close as we’ll come, but imagine— some of the towers must be as big as the Gates of B’canh. Never knew land-walkers could build so high. I thought it’d all fall down without water to support it.

On to the meeting point tomorrow. Then we’ll see what’s worth so much gold.

22nd Frimaire

Slaves. It’s fucking slaves.

Sitting here scratching away and I can feel their eyes on my back. Chained up and all, no doubt about that— Fabre’s contact hammered a staple into my mast specially for the chain— but they’re there. Watching. Fucking looking at me.

Wind’s blowing hard against us from the north-west, but with sails close-hauled we’re making decent time up the coast. Keeping close to land and reefs in case we need to dodge a Monmurg ship. Fabre knows all the best places to lose a raid, apparently. He was telling me all about how you know a good slave, too— one that’s valuable. No sense going to the trouble for one that you won’t get half enough gold for.

The Torvin market is hot for slaves right now, since Monmurg’s isn’t. That’s where we’re bound.

Fabre took the lead out of and we’re trying to stick close, but his _Mistress_ has two sails and she keeps outpacing me. I can find Port Torvin on my own but I’ve never been, and we’re meant to stick together. Makes sense.

Sun’ll be down in an hour. Keeping a close eye out for ships and Fabre’s heading.

23rd Frimaire

Sun came up and I thought for sure I’d see Fabre behind me. No sign.

Two hours after dark last night I turned around to head back south-east at a dead run, and haven’t heard or seen a thing since. The wind is still blowing hard from behind like Procan knows I need to fly. I threw fifty gold into the water last night and I’ll offer blood and pearls if we make it free and clear.

Eight slaves: four humans, three lizards and a locathah with a collar on — to keep him breathing air, Fabre said. At first they wouldn’t answer when I tried to tell them what I was doing. Found out it was because most of them speak Common way different than it is around the Javan Bay, almost a different language. But one human I can sort of understand, and the locathah Gl’ulp speaks Aquan and whatever southern Common the others have.

They’re all from far south in the Amedio jungle. Nowhere I can sail to, and at least a month by foot. Gl’ulp is even farther south-east, somewhere in the Azure Sea.

I didn’t know where the fuck to take them. Gl’ulp said to head for Monmurg. Slavery is still legal, but if I can get them into port and nobody knows they were bought, at least they might get lost in the crowd there. They’re on their own after that.

My hands are rested enough— back to filing off the chains.

24th Frimaire

Got in and out of Monmurg without trouble. It took most of my gold, but a port guard let me dock, drop off my passengers and leave without keeping a record of it. There’s one benefit of being in a Sea Prince’s city.

The eight of them took all my spare clothing, the rest of the gold I had on me, and a couple sacks of all the food and weapons they could carry. I’ve not got enough supplies to make it back across the Bay, but fish and seaweed will do me.

The rest is going in the water anyway. Can’t have anything on me if I’m going to tell Fabre and Bennis that I got caught by privateers in the night and they confiscated every damn thing I had, slaves and all. And beat the shit out of me, too— I stopped at a dive bar on the rocks outside Monmurg’s harbour and picked a fight with a gang of half-orcs. Can’t see out my left eye and I’ve lost another fucking tooth but it’s good the bruises will stick for a while.

These pages, too. I’ll have to cut the whole signature out of the book so there aren’t cut pages ends left behind. But writing the story down will help keep it straight.

Got a long sail back across the Bay. Lots of time to rehearse.

Procan, take it all— everything I have but my _Harbour_. These pages and my blood and my oath that I’ll pay— I’ll keep paying— as long as you send strong winds and good fortune. Not even a lot of good, just a little. Just enough.

—

_EPILOGUE:_

_19th Nivose, near Year’s End_

Saltmarsh had not seen a cold winter day since the Planes diverged, but two weeks of constant driving rain and howling winds would disgruntle even the most indifferent resident of that swampy coast. The local druids were predicting a hurricane, and the nomadic tortles and lizardfolk who passed through irregularly were nowhere to be seen, having moved farther inland for safety.

Zevres would far rather have waited out this foul weather underwater, where the ravings of Umberlee made far less difference. But there was not deep enough water in the shallow coves of the Saltmarsh coast to offer shelter; anything underwater was bound to be flung up and smashed across the rocks. To his disgust, he had spent the last fortnight camping in an inadequately small cave, huddled and chilly and spitting out mouthfuls of rain every so often. It was about the least pleasant soaking a Triton could imagine.

When frustration at his circumstances rose up inside, Zevres would gather it and mumble, “Procan take this too.” The Sender of Storms was better known for his taste in sacrifices of gold and jewels— real, material treasure. But if there was a chance that he’d accept a sacrifice of suffering, Zevres was offering that too. It couldn’t hurt.

His living situation was not self-flagellating. It was just something to be endured while he stayed quiet and out of mind for the time being. Miserable as that could be, Zevres felt it wise.

After limping back into Seaton with a battered face, an empty boat, no Fabre and a story of seized cargo, Zevres had not been well recieved. He’d gone to Bennis directly, knowing that if he tried to hide or run there would be no believing his tale. Bennis had _roared_ , pounded his desk, screamed so furiously he’d flung spittle on Zevres’ stony face. Zevres had taken it as he had learned to take a sergeant’s verbal abuse: silently and without reacting, because you had to just let them yell it out. With one eye still swollen shut, his nose broken and a fair number of scabbed cuts that could still break open, it had hurt less to not move, talk, or make expressions anyway.

But Bennis had believed him, and sent him away in disgust. There would be no work for a long time, but that was fine. Zevres’ ribs wouldn’t have allowed it. Tail between his legs, he’d slunk off down the coat, found an isolated cove to camp out, beached the _Last Harbour_ , and settled in to let the days pass in aching slowness.

 _Fish tomorrow_ , he thought, poking at the fire guttering between some rocks. He thought he could stand a swim, if the winds slackened a bit, to catch some fish or maybe clams. It would be good to eat something other than rubbery beached kelp and unwary crabs.

“Well damn, boys, here he is.”

Zevres jumped so hard that it hurt, pain flashing around his ribs. In the darkness beyond his fire, over the rumble of rain and surging waves, he hadn’t noticed them approach: three shapes coming toward him over the rocky shore, cloaked and hulking. Fabre in the lead.

“Fabre,” he said, sitting up straight and making his shock relax into a relieved grin. _Like you mean it, Zevres_. “You made it.”

Fabre’s expression was unmoving. “I made it, yeah. To Port Torvin. Didn’t see fin or flipper of you.”

“Some fucking privateers—”

“Bennis told me. Some story.”

The crash of the ocean and rain couldn’t drown out the tense silence where the inadequacy of Zevres’ story hung. Fabre and his companions stood unmoving. Zevres licked salt from his lips.

“That’s what happened.”

“And they took the slaves.”

“And beat the shit out of me— Look, I’d have come if I could have but the—”

Fabre gestured. Zevres saw one of the other men raise a boathook and swing the blunt end at his face but couldn’t do anything to dodge in time.

A long while later (he thought— pain had a way of making time go slower) they got tired of roughing him up. Fabre never seemed satisfied with Zevres’ answers about how he’d lost the slaves, though Zevres had stuck to his story even when the bigger thug had stood on his hands with both boots. When the pain had gotten bad enough that he couldn’t remember his story or make up a lie, he’d resorted to cursing and moaning about the pain, or making like he was coughing on blood too hard to focus. That had barely been an exaggeration: they’d hit him in the face often enough that his sharp, fish-shredding teeth had cut up his own tongue and cheeks.

If he left his mouth open, the blood would just trickle out and into the gravel. It was the easiest way to breathe. And the quietest, because all he wanted in the world was for Fabre and the others to keep ignoring him, letting him lie cheek-down on the wet stones and _hurt_.

 _Procan take this too. Procan take this— take this, please_ —

“—won’t make Zeminon happy,” Fabre was saying, surly, as he poked the fire in the shallow cave’s mouth. He’d taken Zevres’ sabre and was using it to stir the coals, trying to poke up a blaze. The wind had started blowing harder and threatened to extinguish the little fire. “But she can ask him herself.”

“Ah, damn. She wants him brought in?”

“I’m sure as fuck not gonna stand there and let her scream at me again. Let him explain it.”

Zevres shivered hard. Spitting rain trickled beneath the collar of his jacket, soaked through his trousers, and the wind made it feel _icy_. Every part of him hurt, but the longer he lay here, the worse the cold became. He risked shifting to relieve the pain of a rock biting into his hip and regretted it when one of the men immediately kicked him in the kidneys.

At the noise of Zevres’ pained groan, Fabre glanced over. “Shut the fuck up.”

Fabre’s stare was flat and cold. Zevres wanted to plead with his eyes— wanted to beg out loud even, or maybe voice his betrayed anguish that Fabre would treat him like _this_ , which felt stupid and childish even in his own head— but he couldn’t. It might make things worse, and he was too proud, and he already knew it wouldn’t work. So he blinked hard like he was blinded by the rain. Like it wasn’t fear making him unable to hold his former friend’s stare.

His former friend who sold slaves. Who wouldn’t blink twice at killing Zevres for the suspicion that he’d betrayed them.

 _Procan take this too. The pain, my blood— my tooth is loose, I can feel it, you can have that too. My fingers_ — Zevres shuddered hard at the thought of his fingers, which felt _smashed_ and which he hadn’t been able to make himself look at beyond seeing that they were bloody. _Not my fingers, please not my fingers. I’ll give you gold— blood— pearls— all the wealth I find for the next **year** if you’ll just bring the storm— the rain— **anything**._

The wind gusted hard. A wave crashed so high on the beach that they were all splattered with surf. One of the thugs swore. The fire was guttering to nearly nothing, its ragged illumination reducing the world to a black void of rising storm and roaring ocean.

“He’s got a boat!” one of the men shouted over the surf’s crash. “We could probably get back to Seaton by—”

“We won’t even get out of the cove!” Fabre shouted back. “Wind like this? Do you know how to fucking sail?”

“I’m not heading back up the cliffs in this, I can’t see shit. We’ll probably fall, or—”

“It’ll pass by morning! A night getting wet won’t kill you. Sit down and shut up, you whingers.”

 _Procan bring the storm! The rain, the waves— give me something, get me **out**. I’ll pay, I’ll pray, I’ll feed you gold_…

A wave crashed so close that icy foam drenched Zevres’ back. He coughed. Fabre and his men were still yelling at each other.

 _Give me a distraction— a sign— just let me get out of this and I swear I’ll pay_.

Zevres worked feverishly at a tooth that had been knocked crooked in the beating. Despite how it filled his mouth with hot blood, he pried at the sickening looseness with his tongue until finally, finally, he could twist the whole tooth around and snap the last thread of tissue. Risking a little movement, he got the tooth between his lips and craned his neck to spit it out into the darkness, onto the beach.

“Sit still!” one of the men yelled at him.

“Fuck— you got rope? Make sure he’s tied up or—”

 _Procan bring the_ —

A wave slammed against the rock wall of the cove, its thunder drowning out the entire world. Its boiling retreat sucked the _Last Harbour_ halfway down the beach: it was tipped onto its side, mast scraping the rocks, unfurled sail whipping. Zevres’ heart seized.

“Get him over here!” Fabre screamed. “—get out of— up the cliff—”

One of the men loomed out of the cave, reaching, and Zevres seized his last chance. He rolled over and scrambled away— cried out with pain from just _moving_ and couldn’t get to his feet, but still he scrabbled toward the water on hands and knees, desperate.

A hand grabbed his vest and yanked. Zevres kicked out, cursing furiously—twisted, viciously bit the arm holding him— was dragged backwards, scraped over the rocks—

A wave slammed into both of them, momentarily lifting them in a whirling surge. In a moment it dropped and dragged them both prone on the rocky shore, but Zevres had been disentangled and the man was choking for breath. Zevres staggered to his feet. He had to— get away—

When Fabre ran at him it wasn’t even a question. Zevres lunged to meet him and slammed their skulls together so hard the world _cracked_ , even as he was grabbing for Fabre’s belt. Through blinding white pain he found the hilt of Fabre’s dagger, yanked, and shoved it back in.

Fabre went down hard on the rocks, the dagger sticking out of his belly.

Zevres stumbled for the ocean, blinded, and let the next wave grab him and drag him into the surf.

The sea was fully raging, pounding at the shore with all the fury of Umberlee behind it, and Zevres could not distinguish up from down, couldn’t tell where the currents were spinning and throwing him. But the instincts of a Triton were strong. He struggled against the currents— deeper, deeper— trying to get out of the cove and its rocky crags that could dash out his brains at any moment—

It was a long, terrified whirl in his brain. All he could do was swim, and swim, and pray.

An eternity later, the water finally calmed. Slow, exhausted, Zevres kicked his way from the sea floor up to the weak light of a grey morning. The world was different in the hurricane’s wake: silent, empty. The coastal forest was tattered and the sea’s surface frothed with detritus.

The _Last Harbour_ had been wedged on an outcropping of rocks in the cove, one sharp crag puncturing its hull like an eggshell. The sail was in tatters and the mast was cracked. When Zevres swam in to it, all he could feel was tired.

He found one thug’s body floating in the mouth of the cove, battered and drowned. The other man was all the way at the top of the cliff, under a heap of fallen trees; Zevres only found him because of the gulls. Knowing that his survival relied on mitigating the suspicions against him— that he could not have bodies mysteriously surfacing after these men had left Seaton to find him— he weighted both with rocks, filled their lungs with water, and made them disappear. It was an improper funeral, but he said the prayers in hopes that their spirits would not be wrathful.

If anyone asked, he had no idea where they’d gone, or where they’d ended up.

It took four more days to find Fabre: washed up on the shore some distance down the coast. The crabs had eaten his eyes. Zevres left his earrings and gold tooth intact for Procan and dragged the corpse down into the depths. He waited until the sharks came to do their work before he was willing to trust that Fabre was truly, permanently gone.

He was left alone on the ravaged coast with a Triton marine’s glaive and a broken boat.

It would take months to fix. And money. But months, he thought… months he had. There would be no pressing, high-paying work for him. No more relying on his connections for good jobs— at least, not until he’d let the memory and suspicion of this incident fade for a long, long time.

Menial work. Solitary days. A long, drudging future.

Zevres sat for a while and watched the sea.


End file.
